Satish Verma
Without Reason
Living in a cyst, it
would explore the breast.
The black ethics goes beyond
the bounds of mystique of
non-movement.
A while away
a conflict comes out of the body.
Melts into a face.
There is no flesh, no skin.
Only transgression, holding my hands.
There were no arguments.
Only speech punctuated by silent sobs.
A taper standing in a gale.
The shadow flies like an arrow into
the pitcher of hemlock.
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